11:23pm

Sitting on a bed, across from my friend, the clock blinked 11:23pm. Which, by Camphill standards, is a criminal bedtime. 

We were talking into the night like we always do when we “only have an hour”. 

It struck me to say: 

“Remember quarantine? Remember who we were eating bread together in White Barn?” 

They replied, “With that Pheobe Bridgers song?”, which we played on repeat. 

I nod.

Our eyes widened, thinking about passed time and, simultaneously we “woahhhhh” like you do with a shared realization. 

“Who were we?” 

We pause.

“I mean, how do you think we’ve changed?” 

We both sat in silence, heads cocked. They believe they have gained the ability to anticipate others' needs, especially those who cannot or do not know how to advocate for themselves. 

I offered something about the sheer amount of information we’ve had to learn about routine, they responded with something about Camphill’s religiosity, and I said that we had learned to do things "the right way”. 

The conversation trailed off. Something unsatisfying lingered in the air, like we hadn’t quite gotten it right. Like we didn't know what had happened, and that we wouldn't know for a while. 

What we do know is that the people who brought us here are distant now, and that we’d stopped listening to Phoebe Bridgers a while ago. 

Beside ourselves, we met puzzled eyes and furrowed brows, waived it off, and changed topics. 

And carried on keeping each other company,  

too late into the night.

November 2nd, 2020